Trading Up
by Doctor WTF
Summary: A one-shot based off a prompt from the Sherlolly Prompt Meme: Sherlock is a bit of a trade rat. He has a habit of "borrowing" stuff from strangers and acquaintances alike, but he always leaves something else behind instead. Molly benefits. Happy Birthday, Petra Todd!


**AN: Happy (slightly early) Birthday Petra Todd! Also, god this was a hard one to write, mostly because I've never tried a sex scene before. And Sherlock is way OOC too. I suppose it is what it is though.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It started out small.

Molly Hooper reached into her pocket to pull out her ID for the morgue and pulled out a filled promotional card for the chip shop down the street. She blinked at the card for a moment, baffled, unable to completely believe her eyes. While it was lovely that she'd be getting a free lunch, where the hell was her ID?

* * *

Martha Hudson frowned as she went through her cupboards. Now where had she put those biscuits at? She knew she'd bought them, they'd been on her list and she'd been to the store just yesterday, but try as she might she simply could not find them.

She could have sworn she had left them right here in her cupboard next to the tea, but all that was there was a box of instant oatmeal that she had no recollection of purchasing. Taking the box down, she frowned at it wondering where it had come from. Oh dear, she did hope that this wasn't sign that she was going senile. Or perhaps her herbal soothers were making her a bit too soothed? Mrs. Turner had warned her that might happen.

Putting the box of oatmeal back where she had found it, she picked up her tea and quickly made her way to her telly and her soaps. Favorite biscuits or no, today they were going to reveal the identity of the father of Susie Ann's baby and there was no way she could miss that!

* * *

The romance novel she'd borrowed from Meena was the next thing to vanish on her. She had sworn it was in her locker! She'd been keeping it there, too embarrassed to be seen in public with it, and had been waiting to sneak it back home in her handbag to read with a glass of wine. After all, a book like _Fifty Shades of Grey_ had a reputation and it wasn't one that Molly wanted applied to her.

Yet, instead of the borrowed novel, _Pride and Prejudice_ was waiting for her on top of her spare jumper when she opened her locker. She picked up the book, frowning a little as she turned it over and over in her hands. It was a new copy, never read, with an absolutely lovely illustration of what had to be Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy on the cover. Granted, _P&P_ was one of her favorite books, but Meena was expecting _50 Shades_ back and she'd sort of wanted to know if it was as good and racy as all her co-workers said it was.

Frowning, she rummaged through her locker looking for where it might have gone. It wasn't like it could have walked off on its own after all.

"Problem?" a deep baritone voice asked from behind her.

Shrieking a little, Molly jumped and whirled around to see Sherlock Holmes towering over her. "Sherlock!" she gasped, pressing a hand to her thudding chest. "You scared me half to death!"

"Doubtful," Sherlock said with a little smile as his eyes drifted over to her torn apart locker. "You're still too young and in too good of health for that. Unless you have a health condition. Do you have a health condition, Molly?"

"I, uh, no."

"Then you're fine." He brushed past her, looking intently at the contents of her locker. "Your organizational skills could use significant improvement."

Molly flushed, then flushed hotter when she realized her emergency box of tampons was on clear display. Darting forward, she slammed her locker door closed and stood in front of it, hoping Sherlock hadn't noticed. Oh god. What was she thinking? Of course he had noticed! And that little smirk on his face, the one he was looking at her with right then? That was the one that showed that he knew that she knew he'd noticed her tampons and that he found her embarrassment over it amusing!

"I was looking for a book!" Molly said, well nearly shouted, as she tried to change the subject in her mind to anything but Sherlock and tampons.

Sherlock eyed her carefully, his smirk seemingly widening as she continued to blush furiously. "You have a book," he said, voice rumbling as he gestured to the Jane Austen she was clutching with white knuckles.

"Yes, well, this isn't my book," Molly said, the look in Sherlock's eyes making her blush even hotter. He was thinking that she was a romance obsessed idiot, wasn't he? "This one sort of just appeared in my locker. I'm looking for a book Meena lent me."

"Vanishing books and mysteriously appearing ones? Interesting." Sherlock reached down and pulled the book from her grip, his warm fingers brushing against hers. She bit her lip at the contact and felt her blush spread. Was he standing awfully close to her? She felt that he was standing awfully close for some reason. Flipping through the pages, Sherlock snapped the book shut and handed it back to her. "I think you should keep this in the event someone comes looking for it."

"G-Good idea," she said, taking the book back and shoving it into her purse. "I'll just be, um, going then. It's the end of my shift. U-Unless you needed something?"

Sherlock smiled down at her and some part of Molly's mind realized that somehow he'd gotten even closer to her. When had that happened? She hadn't even seen him move. "I'm fine," he said softly, his voice rolling over her like velvet. "For now."

"O-Okay," she stammered. Brushing quickly past him, she made a beeline for the door.

"Oh Molly?"

She froze in the doorway. Swallowing slightly she turned to smile at him weakly. "Yes?"

"What book is it that you're missing? In the event that I find it." He smiled at her warmly, his eyes sparkling in some hidden mirth.

If her blush before had been bad, now Molly felt as if she was on fire. It was bad enough that Sherlock had seen her tampons and with a Jane Austen novel. A single woman reading Jane Austen? How pathetically predictable was that? But if he knew she'd been looking for a porny romance novel?

"D-Doesn't matter!" she said quickly. Turning, she practically ran from the room, the sound of Sherlock's low chuckles following her out.

Later, safe in her flat, Molly buried her face in her hands and groaned loudly. She never did get around to reading _Fifty Shades of Grey_, the mental connection to the embarrassment was too great, but according to her mother it was no real loss. According to the older woman, the sex in the book had been rather 'tame' and 'dull.' Her mother gave her a list of recommendations that were 'much more creative' and Molly resolved to never read anything resembling porn again.

* * *

Greg Lestrade swore loudly as he searched through his coat pockets for the sixth time. "Where is it?" he grumbled under his breathe. "Where the bloody hell is it?"

"Problem?" Sally asked, popping her head into his office. She held a stack of files to her chest, the outermost one stamped with 'Unsolved,' and frowned slightly when her boss cursed once more. "I can reschedule if you'd like."

"No," he sighed. "Come in, come in. I'll be right with you as soon as I find my bloody ID." He pulled the pockets inside out and searched through their contents once more. Mobile, book of matches, the notebook he kept his schedule in, red sharpie-

Red sharpie? He looked at the marker, puzzled. Where had he picked this up from? He couldn't remember pocketing it, but he must have grabbed it from somewhere.

"ID missing again?" Sally entered the room, sitting down at the chair he kept just for these sort of meetings. She frowned at him, her fingers tapping the files in her hand. "You know my theory for that, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed, going through the inside pockets of his coat. "You think Sherlock steals them from me as a lark. This is the third time this month though! What would he even do with that many of my IDs?"

Sally shrugged. "I can't pretend to understand the mind of the Freak," she said, setting the files down on his desk.

Sighing again, Greg gave up and flopped back into his desk chair. Great. He'd have to put _another_ request in for _another_ new ID. That was going to go over well. "So what do you have for me?"

* * *

There was a new microscope at her station in the lab when she walked in on Monday. Gasping in delight she'd run over to it, dropping her handbag unceremoniously on the counter as she dashed over to inspect it.

_Finally_, she thought to herself, nearly giggling, as she put an already prepared slide into place and focused the eyepieces. She'd been nagging Mike for _ages_ to get her a new microscope, hers had been horribly outdated and a teaching hospital should always be keeping abreast with new technology, but he'd cited budget concerns and promised that she was on the top of the list for when the money was freed up. That was probably why her station was the only one with a new microscope, she thought, realizing that nothing else had been replaced.

Wait, now that was a bit odd. Only she and Sherlock used her station, her because it was _her station_ and Sherlock because he'd bullied everyone else off it. If Mike was going to start replacing microscopes wouldn't he start with one of the more general use ones where the students could learn to operate it as well?

Then again, this did look to be a very expensive piece of equipment. She picked up the operating manual that was sitting next to it and flipped through it, trying and failing to keep a smile off her face. This microscope, unlike any of the others in the lab, was a digital one and looked like it came with some sort of program that could connect it to a computer. That was new. Maybe Mike had gotten it for her first so she could learn the material and teach it to the others when he got around to replacing the rest?

Well, in any case, she wasn't going to question his decisions! She'd gotten the new microscope she'd wanted, a much nicer one than she'd expected, and she wasn't about to let Mike regret getting it for her. Although, she giggled slightly, if it came with computer software did that mean she was to get a new laptop as well?

No, she shouldn't push her luck. What she had to do, and right that moment, was call Mike and thank him. She didn't want him thinking she was ungrateful or else he might not get around to replacing the rest of the lab's equipment.

Dashing over to the lab's phone she dialed Mike's extension, grinning like a mad person the entire time. "Mike!" she grinned as soon as she heard him pick up the phone. "I can't possibly thank you enough! I absolutely love it!"

"Oh you're welcome," Mike said, his voice distracted. There was a pause. "Wait, what? Molly? What did I do?"

"The new microscope," Molly said, glancing over at it. Her smile was so wide it was actually starting to hurt. "It's lovely."

Another long silence. "What new microscope?"

Her smile faltered for a moment. "For the lab? When I came in this morning there was a new microscope at my station. I assumed that you-"

"What? No, no, it wasn't from me. We're in the middle of a bit of a spending freeze. Nothing to worry about, mind you, but no cash for non-essential purchases. So you have an extra new microscope in the lab?"

Biting her lip slightly, Molly's smile slide into a frown. Damn and blast. The microscope wasn't hers? Had it been misdelivered and meant for another department? Here she had gone and told Mike about it too. She might have been able to keep it if she had pretended not to notice that her old microscope was replaced. "No," she said, sighing deeply. "My old one is gone. I assumed that the new one was to replace it."

"Well I didn't order it," Mike said, his voice going distracted again. "It's already been unpacked and set up and everything?" She said yes. "Then you might as well go and use it for now. We can't have you getting behind on work while we track down where your microscope vanished off to. Just cope as well as you can and I'll figure out this mess."

"Yes, thank you Mike," she said hanging up the phone. Looking over to the microscope, she bit back a sigh. She would have preferred to keep this microscope and let whoever had bought it take her old one instead, but fat chance of that happening. Wonderful.

It was at that moment, of course, that Sherlock swept in, his coat billowing behind him like an overly dramatic cape. "Molly," he said nodding to her politely before his eyes focused on the new microscope. "Ah, new equipment? Excellent. I have some fiber samples that need comparing and that old one didn't have the resolution I needed."

"It's ours for now, but don't get used to it," Molly sighed again. She picked up her handbag and headed over towards her office to put it away. "It's been misdelivered. Once Mike figures out where it should have gone we'll be sending it off and getting our old microscope back."

"Oh?" She thought she heard a smile in Sherlock's voice but when she turned back to look at him, his face was impassive. "With the way Barts handles paperwork Mike may have some problems determining the rightful owners."

"I'm sure they'll come looking for it. We'll just have to enjoy it while we can."

The odd thing was, no one ever did come looking for the new microscope. Then, a week later, the same day that her packed lunch vanished from the break room fridge, a new laptop appeared in the mail addressed to her and her lab. It was already pre-loaded with all the software she needed to take advantage of the new microscope's more advanced features. Mike swore up and down that he hadn't been the one to get them for her so Molly decided not to question it too closely in case whoever had bought the items decided they wanted them back. Instead, she enjoyed the spoils and helped Sherlock with his fiber samples. It really was much easier to compare them with the new microscope.

* * *

John Watson couldn't understand it. He'd just bought a new stethoscope to use at his surgery and now it was missing! And why was there suddenly a stapler and a box of staples in his med kit? Why would he even put something meant for paper in his kit?

Growling in frustration, John dropped to his stomach and looked under his bed. The last time Mary'd been over they had enjoyed playing 'doctor' a bit. Maybe he'd dropped the stethoscope behind the bed when he'd very nearly ruined her bra in his haste to get it off of her and onto his floor where it belonged. He smiled a bit, remembering pert rosy nipples and the way Mary'd gasped when he'd sucked on them, but he was starting to lose focus. He'd see Mary again tonight and there'd be plenty of time to spend thinking about her breasts then.

His stethoscope wasn't under the bed.

This was just like his socks, he realized absently, crawling over to his wardrobe to look under there too. He had gotten a bit physical with Mary there before they'd made it to the bed after all. He had of course heard the joke about how left socks always went missing in the wash, but the rate in which he lost socks was ridiculous. Just last week he'd bought three new twelve packs of cotton socks and now he was down to one pack remaining. He would have suspected Sherlock, but the man didn't seem to be able to wear anything that wasn't designer – even his pants were brand name, though he wasn't about to admit to how he knew what kind of pants Sherlock wore – so John's generic plain socks would hold no interest to him.

He also wanted to know why his sock drawer had paperclips constantly appearing in it too. That was just as bizarre as the stapler in his med kit.

Cursing under his breathe, he got back to his feet, grabbed his med kit, and ran out the door. He was late enough to his shift as it was. He'd just have to borrow a stethoscope from someone else and find his later. Racing to the tube stop, he let his mind wander. Maybe it was in the kitchen? The 'doctor' game had started there after all – thank god Sherlock hadn't been home – so maybe he'd kicked it under the table when he stripped Mary down to her knickers before she got him up the stairs?

Oh well, he'd find it later.

* * *

She reached into her handbag to fish out her mobile – she needed to call Todd, a nice bloke she'd met at the pub who'd asked her out for a date and who she'd decided to say yes to – only to pull out a stranger's phone instead. Her phone was an ancient, battered flip phone with a camera that no longer worked and a zero button that stuck. This phone was a brand new smartphone, the screen protector not even peeled off yet, wrapped in a sunny yellow case.

"Oh no," she muttered under her breathe, looking at it in horror. She didn't know how it had happened, but somehow she'd picked up someone else's phone. But where? And when? It had to have been sometime between this morning when she'd left for work – she distinctly remembered putting her mobile in her handbag before walking out the door – and now. She'd been at work for nearly all day though. Maybe she had somehow misplaced it and picked up this phone by accident when she stopped to pick up a coffee this morning?

How was she ever going to figure out whose phone this was? How was she ever going to get her own phone back? There was no guarantee that whoever's phone she'd taken had picked up her battered old phone in return. She had to try though. Christmas was coming up soon and she would much rather spend her money on presents than a new mobile. Not to mention she didn't want to lose her collection of texts from Sherlock. Granted, most of them were orders or demands that she do certain things for him, but still. She'd wanted to keep them for a reason.

So caught up in her thoughts, she didn't realize that she was being spoken to until a hand thrust a cup of coffee under her nose. "You're awfully distracted today." She jumped slightly, looking up to see Sherlock frowning down at her. "I need you focused," he said, voice cross as he forced the coffee into her hands. "There's an important case and plenty to analyze."

"Sorry," Molly said, taking the coffee. "It's just, my phone-"

"You've gotten a new one, I see. Good. Your old one was abysmal. I'm surprised you could text on that thing."

"No, this isn't my phone!" Molly protested. "I must have taken someone else's by accident when I was getting coffee this morning. I need to return it and get my phone back." She sipped the coffee Sherlock had given her absently, part of her realizing that he'd made it just the way she liked it – plenty of hazelnut creamer and one sugar – while the rest of her wondered how to go about returning the phone. Glancing over at Sherlock, who was gazing disinterestedly at the wall, she bit her lip. Maybe?

"Do you think you could take a look at it?" she asked softly, holding the yellow phone out to Sherlock. "Help me figure out who it belongs to and get it back to them?"

Sherlock's eyes met hers for a moment and he nodded slightly, taking the phone from her. He slid his thumb across the screen, unlocking it, before quickly scrolling through the contact list. "Molly," he said, annoyance coloring his voice, "this mobile is yours."

"It can't be. I haven't the money to waste on a new one and that is most definitely not mine."

Sherlock turned the phone so the screen faced her so she could see the address book. "Would anyone else have myself, John, Mike, and _your_ _mother_ listed amongst their contacts?" he asked.

She took the phone back from him, ignoring the mild glare he was shooting her. "I-How? I don't understand. I didn't buy this."

"Perhaps it was a gift then?" Sherlock suggested, sipping at his coffee. "A late birthday present or an early Christmas? A new boyfriend eager to purchase your affections, perhaps?"

Molly frowned, her grip on the phone tightening slightly. "Well I did meet a nice guy named Todd who asked me out, but we haven't been on a single date yet."

"I'd suggest you not date him at all then," Sherlock said carelessly, starting to look bored. Molly bit her lip again. Of course he was bored, her mystery wasn't anything at all and he wasn't one for small talk. "Considering this 'Todd' must have followed you to Barts in order to steal and replace your phone before even embarking on a single date with you I'd shudder to think what he might dare to do once you're formally in a relationship." He paused to drink deeply from his coffee then fixed her with an intense gaze. "Single young women such as yourself cannot be too careful. There are all sorts out in the world."

"Do you think I should get rid of this then?"

"You might as well keep it," Sherlock said. Snatching the phone out of her grip he tucked it back into her handbag and grabbed her elbow to pull her back towards the morgue. "Your old phone will undoubtedly not be seen again and you've already stated that you cannot afford to purchase a new one at this time. Besides," he eyed her strangely from the corner of his eye, "with this phone you'll actually be able to text in a timely fashion. I would suggest that you keep it and simply tell this 'Todd' to sod off the next time you see him."

"If you say so."

He led her back to the morgue, pausing a moment at the door to look down at her once more. "Molly, I do believe that I told you once that you should no longer pursue relationships in order to preserve law and order. I would suggest, what with this further evidence, that you take that advice to heart."

With that he let go of her arm and swept through the doors of the morgue as if he owned the place. Which he probably thought he did. Glaring at the doors, Molly shoved her cup of coffee into a bin before going after him. Sherlock might have been the smartest person she knew, but at times he could be a _massive_ git.

Later, she tried to call Todd to tell him she wasn't interested only to find that her new phone was missing his number entirely. That was a bit odd, especially if he'd been the one to get her it, but she didn't worry about it too much. Sherlock was running her ragged with processing evidence for his newest case after all. She really didn't have the free time to be dating right now anyway.

* * *

Sally Donovan sighed in contentment as she stretched out her legs, smiling. "I needed that." Today had been an absolutely rubbish day. There'd been a double homicide and far, far too much paperwork that she was still hopelessly behind in. The victims had been two young Uni students, their lives just starting, which was never a good case to have. Too sad. Too many tears and heartbreak from their relatives. It was too close to Christmas. Then, to top it all off, as she'd been organizing the troops to make sure that nothing was missed, the _Freak_ had showed up and upset everything. Once again he'd refused to suit up – despite it being a _crime scene_ and despite the fact that he could be _contaminating evidence_ – and then he'd gone and harassed her already shocked and scared sole witness.

She'd tried to give him a proper chewing out for that bit – lord knew Lestrade would never dare – but with a look in his eyes that was clearly labeling her an idiot the _Freak_ had run off to who knew where with John Watson in tow. He'd probably get back to him tomorrow and tell them he'd deduced the murderer by their terrible taste in cologne and their choice in clothing fabric. Yeah, like that would ever hold up in court.

Eric Anderson groaned in agreement, lifting his head weakly from her chest. "God, yes. Every day should end that way."

"Then you should divorce that wife of yours and ask me to marry me like a proper gentleman," she teased, dismissing all thoughts of Sherlock Holmes from her mind as she leaned down as much as she could while still handcuffed to the bed. Eric met her the rest of the way, pressing a kiss into her lips.

"Paperwork's been filed," he sighed, his hand coming up to bury itself in her hair. "I," he said, kissing her again, "was thinking," he kissed her once more, "Paris. For the honeymoon."

"Paris?" She laughed, as he started to trail a string of kisses, like pearls, down her neck. "Why Paris?"

He shrugged and ran his teeth over her collarbone, smiling as she shivered beneath him. "Dunno. It's romantic?"

"We don't need Paris for you to handcuff me to the headboard and shag me into the mattress," Sally sighed bucking up slightly as Eric's hand ghosted over her stomach. Speaking of her stomach, it grumbled loudly reminding her that it had been a long time since breakfast. "But I could use dinner."

"Do you really?" Eric asked, sliding down to kiss her belly button. "I was thinking we could skip dinner and go straight to dessert."

"I would," he kissed the inside of her knee and she inhaled sharply and bit her lip, "but honestly I'm starved. Take me somewhere nice and buy a girl a dinner?" she asked hopefully. Eric had been a bit skittish when they'd first started their affair, worried that his wife would find out, but now that he knew that she was just as eager to get out of their marriage as he was he'd started to relax a bit. Still, they hadn't had a proper date in a proper restaurant before and, well, there was an old-fashioned part of her that wanted that.

He pouted at her from her ankles, running his hands up and down her calves. "But dessert?"

"After dinner," she smiled at him. "Promise."

For a moment she thought he was going to continue to protest but then a grin split his lips and he crawled up to press another kiss to her lips. "Fine, you harpy," he said, still smiling at her as he pulled away. "Where's the handcuff key?"

"On my belt in the little pouch next to the handcuff loop," she replied, nestling herself down into the pillows and stretching her arms as far as they could go. Smirking she admired Eric's ass as he plodded naked out of her room in search of her belt. Oh, she'd found a well hidden secret with that one, she thought happily to herself. And she had no intention of letting any other woman find out about him either.

She rather liked sex while being handcuffed. She liked making Eric do most of the work, his face flushed with arousal as he wrapped her legs around him and thrust. She liked when he teased her until she begged for release, but her arms in handcuffs did get sore fast. She wondered if it was better or worse if you were handcuffed behind your back. Then she wondered if she could talk Eric into making that dessert. He didn't like the handcuffs as much as she did, but maybe if she locked _him_ to the bed for once she'd get him to change his mind. She smiled picturing his hips uselessly bucking as she hovered above him asking if he'd been a bad, bad boy. Now _there_ was a good idea.

Eric brought the belt over to the bed, flopping down on the mattress with a thump. "Which pouch?" he asked, holding it up for her inspection.

"That one, the little one by your thumb," she said, nodding to it. Or maybe next time they could use those disposable ziptie handcuffs. They had boxes of them back at the Yard, back from when the department thought they'd switch over to those instead of the traditional silver bracelets. She'd probably be able to snag a box or two without anyone ever being the wiser. There was probably all sorts of things you could do with handcuffs she thought to herself, still smirking as Eric opened the pouch. Some experimenting was in order.

"Um," Eric reached into the pouch and instead of a key he removed a white eraser, "Sally? No key."

"What?" She tried to sit upright in shock, but the handcuffs stopped her short and she fell back into the pillows. Her eyes snapped to the eraser in his hand. "How the hell did that get in there?"

"Maybe it's in another pouch?" Eric set the eraser down and began opening up the other pouches on her belt. He pulled out her CS spray, her disposable gloves, CPR mask, plasters, her collapsible baton, the extra batteries to her taser, and her badge. The key was nowhere to be found. "Shit," Eric hissed, going through the pouches again. "Where else could you have put it?"

"Nowhere!" Sally nearly shouted, trying to sit up again. "I always keep the keys in that pouch! That's the pouch that's made to fit them. I wouldn't put them anywhere else and it's not like I've arrested anyone recently for me to have taken them out."

"So where are they?"

"I don't know!" Now she was shouting. Breathing a bit more heavily too, but not in a way she particularly liked. "Eric, please tell me you have a set of handcuff keys back at your flat."

Eric ran his fingers through his hair, looking a little pale. "Me? I work forensics, Sally. We don't carry handcuffs."

"I know," she moaned collapsing back onto her bed. Curling up as much as she could she buried her face into her pillows. "We're going to have to call someone."

Eric groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Who?"

Sally sighed, raising her head up from her pillows and looking over to her boyfriend. "_Not_ Lestrade."

* * *

It was the worst. Christmas. _Ever_.

Molly huddled the blankets on her sofa and sniffled loudly as she blearily watched telly. It wasn't fair, she thought as she dabbed at her running nose with a hanky. She'd woken up that morning with a bit of a headache and a cough, but eight hours in the morgue had turned her into a runny nosed, achy, feverish, hacking mess.

Honestly, she should have expected something like this to happen. She'd been promised this Christmas off to go visit her sister and mother in Blackpool, but Mike had called her two days ago to tell her that Doctor Shuster had broken his leg and wouldn't be able to take the holiday shifts this year. Molly had tried to protest, insisting that since she had taken the last three years of Christmas shifts she surely deserved this one off, but Doctor Webster was already in Switzerland skiing and Doctor Maclean wasn't qualified to do autopsies.

Sighing, she'd agreed to take the holidays shifts – _again_ – and decided that, since she couldn't make it to her sister's, that she would at least enjoy Sherlock's Christmas party as best she could. Now she couldn't even go to that, not when she felt like she was on death's doorstep. No one would want to be around a sick person at Christmas and she didn't want to go around infecting people.

Sniffling loudly, she pulled the blanket up to her chin and tried to focus on her telly. What was she even watching? She coughed again, groaning slightly as the movement made her head ache worse. Was she watching some sort of Christmas movie? Well, whatever it was, it was rubbish. Where had she put her remote again? And had she missed the _Doctor Who_ Christmas special? She hoped not, she'd been too sick to remember to record it.

Someone knocked on her front door. _Carolers,_ she thought darkly. The remote was sitting on her coffee table a good foot out of her reach. She looked over to her the program on her telly again. Was sitting up to fetch the remote really needed? Maybe this wasn't as bad as she had thought.

Whoever was at her door knocked again, harder this time. Persistent buggering carolers. "Go 'way," Molly muttered under her breathe, burying herself further under her blanket. What were carolers doing in her building anyway? Who'd been the idiot who had thought buzzing them in was a good idea?

"It's Sherlock," the person on the other side of her door said, knocking once more. "Open the door, Molly, I know you're in. The lights in your flat are on and I can hear your telly."

"Sherlock?" She looked over to the door. What was Sherlock doing at her flat? She hadn't thought that Sherlock even knew where she lived. Was this some sort of bizarre fever dream brought on by her cold? Whatever the case, dream Sherlock or not, he was knocking at her door again and Molly had the feeling that he wouldn't stop until she answered. Groaning, she pulled aside her blankets and stood up. Making sure her dressing gown was tied tightly – even if this was a dream she didn't want Sherlock seeing her ducky pajamas – and shuffled to the front door. Wiping her nose with her sleeve she undid the bolts and slowly swung the door open.

Sherlock stood there, looking perfect as always, wrapped tightly in his coat and scarf with the tip of his nose slightly red from the chill outside. He frowned down at her, taking in her slovenly appearance. With the heat of his gaze she tugged at her dressing gown, making sure it was closed.

"Whadda want?" she slurred then winced as Sherlock's lips pursed at her words. Sherlock had always been a bit of a grammar Nazi. It wasn't surprising that the fever hallucination version of him was the same way. "I mean-"

"You did not attend John and I's Christmas party," Sherlock interrupted before she could correct herself. "I am here to determine your reasons for that."

She resisted the urge to wipe at her nose again. "I'm sick," she said, leaning against her doorframe for support. Couldn't he simply go away and leave her alone to die in peace?

Sherlock's lip twitched slightly as her head lolled over to rest against her doorframe with the rest of her body. "I can see that." He stood there for another moment, staring at her, before sighing deeply. Removing his gloves he shoved them into his coat pocket before pushing her back into the flat and following her in. "You need tea," he said in explanation as he guided her back to her settee. Unwinding his scarf and removing his coat he tossed them carelessly onto the back of her arm chair. He was wearing a deep red shirt she hadn't seen before, she thought absently as he removed his suit jacket as well and tossed that down too. "Sit," he said firmly, giving her a look before stalking off to her kitchen.

Yup. This was definitely a dream. Sherlock would never come to her flat to make tea. Molly laid back down on the sofa, burying herself back under her blankets as Toby jumped up to join her. It wasn't fair. She wasn't meant to be sick in her dreams. In them she was supposed to be witty and outrageously attractive and Sherlock was supposed to be on top of her, fingers between her legs as he kissed the breathe out of her. Instead she felt like she was well on her way to becoming a zombie and Sherlock was making her tea. Worst. Sexual fantasy. Ever.

"Drink this," Sherlock said, setting a steaming mug down on the coffee table in front of her. Scooping up the remote he lifted her legs before sitting down on the other end of the sofa and setting her legs back down on top of him. He frowned at the telly. "What on earth are you watching?"

"Dunno," Molly sighed and pulled herself up just enough to grab the tea and sip at it before setting it back down. It had too much honey in it and not enough lemon for her taste but it was hot – she was still freezing – and it made her throat feel better at least. "Did I miss _Doctor Who_?"

"Yes." Sherlock's hand was resting on her blanket just above her ankle, his fingers absently playing with the fabric. "You didn't miss much – I don't understand how that program continues to air – but John insisted that we watch it. Said it was a Christmas tradition."

Molly groaned softly and frowned, pulling her blankets closer around her. "I love _Doctor Who_. Can't believe I missed the Christmas Special."

She could almost feel Sherlock roll his eyes. "I'm sure they'll rerun it into infinity soon enough," he said shortly, his hand squeezing her ankle slightly. Sherlock began rapidly changing the channels with the remote, his hand never leaving her ankle as he searched for something suitable to watch. Finally he found something he liked, some sort of documentary she thought, and began to yell at the telly as she slowly but surely drifted off to sleep.

Awaking the next morning, she found her fever broken and her head finally clear. She was a bit stuffed up still, but compared to yesterday it felt like a Christmas miracle. Yawning, she stretched and opened her eyes, smiling slightly. It was amazing what a decent night's sleep could do for a girl. Pulling off her blankets she took off her dressing gown, her flat was a little too warm for it, before heading towards her kitchen. Now, what she really needed right now was a decent breakfast and-

Sherlock Holmes was sitting at her kitchen table, a steaming cup of tea sitting in front of him. She stared at him blankly as he glanced up at her, his shirt and hair a bit rumpled but otherwise it was the same Sherlock Holmes she saw nearly every day in her morgue. "Morning," he said flatly, going back to the newspaper he'd found somewhere. "I made tea."

"What are you-?" Oh god. That bit from last night that she had convinced herself was a dream. It hadn't been a dream at all had it? Did Sherlock really come to her flat when she was sick just to see why she hadn't come to his Christmas party? Had they really talked about _Doctor Who_? Had she really fallen asleep on her sofa with him, her feet on his lap as she stroked her ankles? She felt her face erupt into flame.

Sherlock stood and with a single step was looming over her. "You're flushed," he said lowly, hand coming up to cup her cheek. "Are you still feeling ill?"

"No!" Molly gasped loudly, trying to back away. Sherlock moved with her, stepping forward as she stepped back, getting even closer to her if anything. "I feel fine now, thank you."

"Thank you," Sherlock repeated, a smile on his face. "What did I do?"

"T-The tea. And the coming over to check on me and-"

Sherlock's thumb brushed the bottom of her lips and his smile widened as she jumped a little at the contact. "You still feel quite warm. Are you sure that you're feeling better?"

"Yes."

"Good."

He pressed his lips to hers and Molly felt her mind go blank. Sherlock Holmes was kissing her. Oh. So this was a dream after all.

Sherlock's arms were around her now, pressing her tightly to him as he nibbled at her lower lip. She gasped in shock as one of his hands swept down to squeeze her bum and he took advantage, tongue slipping into her mouth as he deepened the kiss. Her hands came up against her will to bury themselves in his hair, pulling him down to her. She tugged and he moaned into her mouth, biting at her lip as he finally pulled away to take a breathe.

"Molly," he muttered, smiling slightly. His eyes were dark as he looked at her. His knee came up between her legs, parting them slightly, and she felt a shudder run through her. "I should have done this years ago," he said, head dropping to hers for another kiss.

"Why-" she pulled away slightly, her hands coming up to his chest to stop him. "Why _are_ you doing this?"

He smiled at her strangely, his gaze surprisingly warm as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small dark plant with rounded leaves. "Mistletoe." He held the plant up for her inspection, searching her face carefully for her reaction.

"You're supposed to be standing under it to kiss someone," Molly said quietly, her eyes leaving the plant to go back and meet Sherlock's dark eyes.

Sherlock shrugged slightly, tossing the plant carelessly over his shoulder. "Unimportant," he said, leaning down and capturing her lips with his own once more.

She wasn't quite sure how he got her into her bedroom without her noticing, just that suddenly they were horizontal and she was arching back into her pillows as Sherlock caressed her breasts through her ducky pajamas. "Your taste in sleepwear is abysmal," he told her hoarsely, pinching her nipple through the soft fabric. She groaned, wondering if she should hit him for that, but deciding to focus on getting his shirt off of him instead. If this was a dream she wasn't about to waste it fighting with her dreamed Sherlock. "I shall have to correct that."

"Shut up," she hissed, one hand burying itself in his hair to pull him down for a kiss while her other hand fought with the buttons of his red shirt. "Shut up, shut up. Just shut up."

He smirked at her, but kissed her so deeply that she forgot about his insults about sleepwear and lost herself to the feeling of her tongue in his mouth as he knelt between her thighs. Breaking the kiss, he took big handfuls of her pajama shirt and ripped, yellow buttons flying everywhere as she gasped. Fingers coming up to tease at the edges of her pink, lace bra, he nipped at her collarbone then pressed a wet kiss to the spot.

"Your taste in knickers is surprisingly good though," he said between kisses, traveling lower and lower until her nipple was in his mouth and he was soaking the pink lace as he sucked at it.

Part of her – the part that wasn't writhing under him, legs locked around him and hands in his hair, moaning as he nipped and sucked her nipple into hardness – thought to tell him that these knickers had been her last clean pair, the ones she so rarely wore because she didn't have anyone to wear them for, and that her usual underclothes featured a lot more white cotton and a lot less lace. The rest of her snapped at her to shut it and to get Sherlock's bloody shirt off. She needed his skin pressing into hers and she needed it now.

Surging up to do just that, she forced Sherlock down to the bed. Straddling him she focused on the buttons as he stoked the back of her thighs. He helped her get his shirt off, sitting up to help her tug the fabric from his body, then raised his hips to help her slide his trousers from his hips. He was beneath her then, only clad in silk boxers and she trailed a hand down his chest, biting her lip as admired the pale smoothness of his chest.

"God, you're beautiful," she murmured, dropping down to kiss him.

He met her half-way, tugging at her hair to keep her against him. "I thought that was supposed to be one of my lines," he groaned, pulling away for a moment. Yanking at her pajama bottoms he frowned against her lips as he was unable to get them off with her legs clenched against his body. "I need these off of you," he growled, pulling away again. "Now."

He rolled her back under him, his kisses becoming possessive as they struggled together to get her pajama bottoms off of her. Briefly, he teased his fingers along the front of her knickers, caressing the matching pink lace but then he was pulling that off of her as well as she sat up to unhook her bra. She was naked beneath him then, fumbling with his pants as his eyes raked her body, taking every inch of her in.

"Your breasts are larger than I imagined," he told her, dipping down to kiss them, "but then I always did find it difficult to deduce your proportions under those baggy jumpers of yours." He grazed his teeth over her breast. "How did you ever manage to hide from me?"

This was probably some great eureka moment for this, her dream Sherlock. The exact second he realized what a fool he had been and how he'd nearly passed her by entirely. The time when he would regret that he hadn't found her sooner and vow to never ignore her again.

And Molly didn't give a fuck.

Grabbing his arse through the silk of his boxers, she hauled him up towards him, glaring at the wide-eyed shocked look he gave her. "Shut up and shag me," she growled, wrapping her legs tightly around him. "Or get the hell out."

He raised an eyebrow at her and for one horrible moment she thought he was going to actually leave. But then his mouth crashed into hers, their teeth clacking together, and his hands joined hers as they shoved his pants down to his knees and he kicked them off as his fingers came up to stroke her already dripping labia.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't fast enough. Reaching down she grasped him, stroking him once, twice, three times as his eyes clenched shut and he gasped her name. He had a tattoo on his hip, she realized absently, focused on the moan she was forcing from his lips. Initials. VR. Of all the bizarre details for her dreaming mind to add, that one had to be the oddest.

He batted her hand away from his prick, kissing her so hard she thought she tasted blood. Wrapping one of her legs around him, he grabbed himself and, after a moment of fumbling, slid himself in. She gasped at the size of him. He was big and it had been far, far too long since she'd ever been intimate with anyone. Growling something that had to be vulgar he kissed her again, biting her bottom lip as he slid out slightly then pushed himself the rest of the way in, filling her completely this time.

Moaning, back arching, she wrapped her arms around him and dragged her nails across his back. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock moaned his agreement, arm hooking under one of her legs to force her to be more open to him as he started to move. It was slow at first, jerky, but as she moaned his name and urged him forward with her hips he sped up, finally hitting a pace that worked for them.

It was hard, rougher than she usually liked, but for today, for this dream, it was perfect. His lips ghosting over hers in half forgotten kisses, his hips pounding into hers as she rose to meet him, his hand gripped her leg so hard that, if this hadn't been a dream, it would have left bruises. The way he was panting her name.

This was it. She was more than willing to stay in this part of the dream forever. To feel the mounting tension of orgasm as Sherlock pounded into her for eternity. She didn't need to find release. She never needed this dream to end.

But end it did. From the end table her mobile phone rang, the cheerful tone that let her know her mother was calling. It was probably to wish her a Happy Christmas and to sympathize over having to be on call today of all days. Jumping slightly, she pushed Sherlock up and off – and that was strange, why wasn't he vanishing now that the dream was over and she was awake? – scrambling for her mobile.

"Molly Hooper!" Sherlock nearly yelled, diving past her to grab the bright yellow mobile out of her hands. "You! I can't even-" He glared at her, his face flushed and hot but if it was from anger or sex she didn't know. "If you answer this call," he hissed, grabbing her shoulder and forcing her back onto her bed, "and leave me this way I shall tie you to this bed, tease you to the brink and then leave. Then I will do it again, and again, and laugh at you every time you beg me for release."

He loomed up over her again, still ringing mobile clutched in his hand as he glowered down at her. His penis was in between her labia, not inside her as she would have liked, hot and hard and twitching in pent up frustration.

"You're actually here," she gasped, hands coming up to cover her mouth as she felt himself blush. Was it even possible to blush when already flushed with sex? She didn't know, but if you could she was. "This isn't a dream?"

He rolled his eyes at her and tossed her cell phone to the end table. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he growled and then he was kissing her. His hands slid down her body and he guided himself back into her, resuming their hard pace as he yanked her legs apart. "Do you dream about me, Molly Hooper?" he asked hoarsely, punctuating his words with thrusts as he reached down to stroke her clit. She moaned loudly as the tension began to build again. "Naughty dreams where I do all manner of unspeakable things to you? Does this feel like one of those dreams?"

"Y-Yes!" she gasped.

She tried to pull him down for a kiss but he resisted her, preferring instead to look down at her with darkened eyes as he stilled his hips and increased the pressure of his fingers on her clit. "Would you really rather," he asked lowly, lowering himself to brush his lips against her ear, "talk to your mother instead of having me between your thighs?" He pulled his fingers away from her, chuckling lowly when Molly mewled a protest and tried to force his hands back. "Would you, Molly?"

"No! No, no, Sherlock _please_!" she gasped, hips rocking to try and get him to start moving again. "Please. I'm so-"

He cut her off with a bruising kiss, rocking into her again as she moaned into his mouth. His fingers went back, stoking and pinching her as she clutched him to her, panting his name into his ear. Burying his face into the crook between her neck and shoulder he gasped loudly as she arched into him with a loud cry, her core pulsing around him as she screamed his name. A few more rough, artless thrusts and he was spent as well, ejaculating into her and trembling as he collapsed on top of her.

She took him in her arms, stroking him and pressing kisses to the top of his head as she felt him soften in her. She gasped a little as he moved over her again, rearranging himself on top of her so he could suck and bite at her neck properly as semen leaked down her thigh. She shivered as Sherlock licked and bit, threading her fingers through his hair.

"What are you doing?" she asked, voice still breathless.

"Giving you a love bite," Sherlock growled in reply between nips. "Your neck is in desperate need of one."

"That," she gasped as Sherlock bit down harder, "is supposed to be one of my lines."

He chuckled against her, the rumble of his chest shaking her entire body. "You attempted to answer a phone call from your mother during sex," he said, finally pulling himself away and off of her to collapse next to her on the bed. "I find that very rude."

She flushed slightly. "You swore," she countered, feeling the blush travel down her chest. "You think cursing is a sign of a small vocabulary and feeble mindedness."

He traced the path of her blush, following it down her breasts with an odd sort of smile on his face. "For most of our encounter, you thought you were having a wet dream."

"I still sort of think this has to be a dream," Molly sighed, leaning over to press a kiss to his lips. "You came over to check on me when I was sick and made me tea. We had sex. That seems awfully dream-like to me."

"You ruined my plans by not coming to the party," he rumbled, pulling her towards him. "I had intended to make my intentions known under the mistletoe last night, but you never came. It's difficult for there to be mistletoe at a party when the only guests are John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and whoever John's newest girlfriend's name is. There's no one to snog." He cupped her bum, smiling at her. "Though, overall, I believe that this was the better outcome."

She smiled back at him, her hands traveling down his chest. "You have a tattoo," she said, smile expanding into a grin as Sherlock suddenly froze then flushed scarlet. "VR? What does it stand for?"

Mortification flashed over his features before he fixed her with a hard glare as she giggled. "You should get some rest," he said pointedly, pulling away from her to sit up. "You've been ill recently and still need time to recover."

"Oh don't be mad!" Molly giggled. Somehow it was so much easier to tease someone once you'd shared a bed and orgasm with them. "I think it's nice you have a tattoo. I never would have expected it from you."

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and grabbed up his pants and trousers, sliding them back on. "Sleep," he said firmly, doing up his belt. He snatched up his shirt, looking at Molly out of the corner of his eye. "You are on call today, but are not required to go to Barts unless they phone you?"

"Yes," Molly said, yawning against her will. She was always ready for a good long nap after sex and even the pleasure of watching Sherlock dress wasn't enough to keep her eyes open. Sherlock seemed to be the opposite, he was practically trembling in pent up movement as he did up his buttons.

"Excellent." He turned towards her, an almost nervous look on his face. "Mrs. Hudson is making Christmas dinner. It shall be served at seven. Will you come?"

She blinked up at him, a smile starting to cross her face. She'd been worried, more than a little that this had been some sort of one-off, a strange and unfathomable mistake on Sherlock's part. But as he gazed down at her, almost but not quite biting his lips, she realized that he wouldn't be asking her to what was essentially family dinner if he hadn't wanted her.

"There will be presents," Sherlock said quickly, taking Molly's silence as refusal. "I have obtained one for you and wish for you to open it."

"I'd love to come."

He grinned at her widely, his shoulders suddenly relaxing as he bent down to press one final kiss to her lips. "Excellent," he said, straightening up. "I shall see you at seven then."

Sighing, Molly flopped down on her bed. Sherlock was certainly a strange one, she thought to herself as she pulled her blankets around herself. But really, would she have him any other way?

* * *

"Where have you been all night?" John asked Sherlock as he walked into 221B, his shoulders hunched and his collar popped up high.

"I was seeing to Molly," came the reply as Sherlock took off his coat and hung it on its peg. The tall man sniffled, then coughed loudly as he stalked into the kitchen and, taking John's fork out of his hand, speared a sausage and ate it. "She was ill."

John glared at his flatmate as Sherlock started in on his eggs. "Want me to fix you a plate?"

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock said, taking his last sausage and swiping his orange juice before sitting down at the table across from him.

He rolled his eyes and picked up his tea, glad Sherlock hadn't stolen that at least. "So Molly's sick? Why did you go bothering her then?"

Sherlock drank the orange juice, frowning slightly as he set down the glass. "I needed something from her," he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Sherlock! It was Christmas Eve. What could you have possibly needed from a sick woman on Christmas Eve?"

Sherlock coughed slightly, his frown deepening as he leaned back into his chair. "Her knickers," he said casually, pulling a pair of pink lacy pants out of his pocket and setting them on the table between them. John choked on his tea, coughing loudly as hot fluid when down the wrong pipe. "Also I've apparently come back with her cold. Unfortunate."

"You _what!_?" John gasped, slamming down his mug of tea. "Did you just _steal_ Molly Hooper's-"

"I did not steal them," Sherlock interrupted quickly, snatching the offending item up and shoving it back into his pocket. "I swapped for them."

"Swapped? For what?"

Sherlock smiled at him in that way he did when he knew the answer to something but wasn't about to go and tell anyone what it was. Which was good because suddenly John didn't want to know what Sherlock had swapped with Molly Hooper to get her knickers from her. He didn't think he was going to like the answer. At all.

"I'm going to bed," Sherlock said, standing up and stalking down the hall to his bedroom. "Don't bother me."

"No problem," John muttered, eyeing his plate of food wearily. Suddenly he wasn't as hungry as he had been. Sighing in annoyance he wondered Mary would mind terribly if he asked to be invited along for Christmas dinner.

In his room, Sherlock coughed once more before bonelessly falling back onto his bed. Glancing at the clock, Molly should be awake again by now, he pulled out his mobile. A smirk crossed his lips as he texted her.

_Molly – I seem to have come into possession of your knickers and a few other odds and ends of yours. I suggest that we arrange a suitable trade for their return. – SH _

He didn't have to wait long for her to reply. Good, he'd known she'd be faster at texting with the new phone.

_You have my knickers!? And what do you mean trade? Trade for what? – Molly_

He felt a grin split his face and he coughed again slightly as he typed out a reply. "Oh Molly," he murmured, pleased. If nothing else, this would prove to be a pleasant distraction for some time. He glanced at the piles of pieces he'd collected from her over the years – the books, the badges, the jumpers, the pens, and other assorted odds and ends – and chuckled lowly. Yes, this distraction could hold him for quite some time indeed.

* * *

**AN cont: Yes there was implied John/Mary and Sally/Anderson porn in my Sherlolly! I love Sally and think she and Anderson have seriously gotten a bad rap in the Sherlock fandom. Sally's a bit of a bitch to Sherlock, but in my headcanon she's a stickler for the rules and Sherlock infuriates her with his breaking of them. Anderson in my head is still a git, but (at least in this fic) Sally loves him and he loves her back so he must have some sort of redeeming qualities. **

**So yeah. Happy Birthday Petra Todd!**


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